


Fidelius

by WingedAria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Azkaban, Dementors, Prison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedAria/pseuds/WingedAria
Summary: This story was requested by my sister; we both love Sirius and wanted to see the series from his perspective. No AU, just a retelling, behind the scenes. In progress, so check back for more!
Kudos: 4





	1. Halloween, 1981

It had seemed so clever a week ago. Dumbledore had advised against it, but Sirius had persuaded them all to see it his way. No one, looking at James’ three oldest friends, would choose Peter for, well, anything. The man was weak, cowardly, utterly forgettable. And not responding to any messages. Sirius paced in his house, back and forth across the living room. Something was wrong. The prickling tension along the back of his neck wouldn’t go away. There was nothing to distract him; the radio had been ominously quiet all day. Somehow, no news didn’t feel like good news.

Outside, muggle children laughed and ran, swinging their festive bags of candy. He opened the door to leave a bowl of treats on the step after the fifth time the doorbell interrupted his pacing, and saw his grey motorcycle waiting by the curb. Maybe a ride would calm him down, leave these worries behind him. He reached back inside for his helmet and jacket, where he had thrown them on the floor after the last ride. The key in his hand felt right. He would just go out for a quick ride, shake off the rust. And if he happened to check in on Peter along the way, it wasn’t because he was doubting himself. Just saying hello to an old friend. 

The bike roared to life. He revved the engine a few times, getting whoops and stares from passing children, and annoyed looks from their parents. The grey Triumph darted out into the empty street, on the quickest route to Peter’s hiding place. 

* * *

The house was dark and quiet when he pulled up. Sirius checked his watch, leaning the bike onto its stand. It wasn’t that late yet, even for a homebody like Peter. It was, however, much too late for visitors, the cranky elderly witch at the door told him in no uncertain terms. She tried to close the door, but he put his foot in the way.

“I’m looking for my friend, Peter,” he told her, smiling as charmingly as he could manage. The creeping feeling in his hackles hadn’t been eased by the ride. Every block he rode to get here felt like miles, and there was no way he would let this woman stop him. 

The witch sniffed, pulling her well-worn bathrobe tighter over her chest and crossing her arms. “Peter’s a good boy. You don’t look like the sort he’d be friends with.”

Sirius nearly laughed. Some people were so prejudiced. “Is he home?”

“No, and I’ll thank you to get off my porch,” she replied. “It’s not safe to stand around in the dark these days.” Sirius withdrew his foot, which had started to ache despite the boots he wore. The door slammed shut in his face, but not before the witch cast one last disapproving look at him and his bike. 

There was no reason for Peter to have left the house, tonight of all nights. The dark wizards would be out in force, looking for mayhem. Looking for the Order, for Lily and James and baby Harry. The house was safe and quiet, and Peter was of absolutely no consequence to anyone. The only way he could be involved in anything dangerous would be if…

Sirius froze halfway down the steps. It was unthinkable. He flung himself back onto the bike and fumbled the key into the ignition. With a twist of the throttle, he sped out into the road, narrowly missing a group of teenage muggles. They flipped him off, calling after him. The wind cut through his thin sweater and he realized he’d left his helmet and jacket on the cranky witch’s steps. It didn’t matter. Once he got to Godric’s Hollow and saw nothing, he could go back and get them. He flipped a switch and the motorcycle rose into the air. Skimming the treetops, the bike ate through the miles. 

There was a flickering orange glow through the forest as he approached the tiny town. Smoke had been drifting through the sky in sheets for several minutes. Just a bonfire, he thought to himself. Nothing to worry about. He tipped his head up to peek at the sky: through the smoke, he could see the stars clearly, but nothing else. No dark mark shone green above the town. Maybe he was wrong, and had raced over here for no reason. 

The bike skidded to a stop in front of the house that he shouldn’t have been able to see. Small fires burned in the grass in front of the house, which had been torn apart. Plaster and beams were strewn about, piled with shingles and broken window panes. Sirius managed to get the kickstand down, legs shaking so much he could barely climb off the bike. They were gone, all three of them, and it was all his fault. He put both hands to his head and pulled at his hair, teeth clenched to keep from screaming. A figure emerged from the wrecked building, and for an instant his heart leapt with hope. He hurried forward, realizing as he did that this person was far too large to be James or Lily. 

Hagrid cradled something gently in one enormous arm, held close against his coat. He was silhouetted by the fire, but even so Sirius could tell the groundskeeper was crying. 

“Who’s there?” Hagrid asked roughly, catching sight of Sirius on the sidewalk. “There’s been an accident, stay back.”

“It’s me, Hagrid. Sirius,” He couldn’t make himself ask the question. “Are they - “

The child Hagrid carried cried out, brief wails interspersed with coughing from the smoke. 

“Sirius! Stay back, yeh don’ want to see this.” Hagrid said more gently, rocking the baby in the crook of his arm. 

“James and Lily?”

“They’re gone.” The half-giant sniffled, wiping his nose against his unoccupied sleeve, “I’m taking little Harry to Dumbledore, keep him safe.”

“No, give him to me,” Sirius demanded. “I’m his godfather, I’ll keep him safe.” Responsibility had never been his strong suit; Lily had laughed when they assigned him as godfather. It had seemed impossible that he would ever be asked to care for a child, just a formality, with James and Lily young and healthy. But here he was, just a year later. He hadn’t been able to keep his best friend safe, but he’d be damned if he let anything happen to James’ son. 

Hagrid shook his shaggy head and laid his hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “I’ve got my orders from Dumbledore himself,” he said. “He’s got to be kept safe.”

There was nowhere safer than with Dumbledore. The Dark Lord himself seemed to fear the old man, giving Hogwarts a wide berth. Sirius nodded slowly. The boy would be fine, for now. Peter, on the other hand, still needed to be dealt with. He pulled his wand out. 

“Take my motorcycle, it’ll be faster,” He told Hagrid. 

“I can’t take that,” Hagrid protested. 

Sirius gestured with his wand, and a matching sidecar appeared on the bike. “Please. I won’t be needing it anymore.”

The huge hand on his shoulder squeezed. “I know how much they meant to yeh. I’m sorry.” 

Sirius patted Hagrid’s arm awkwardly. There was nothing else to say. Hagrid walked to the bike and laid the fussing baby in the sidecar. Sirius found a blanket, thrown into the street from the blast, and tucked it around Harry. When he looked back up, Hagrid had produced a pair of goggles from somewhere, and was buttoning up his coat. He nodded once at Sirius, and kicked the bike to life. They roared away, up into the sky, and Sirius watched them go. The fire around the ruins of the house still crackled. Distantly, he could hear the sirens from muggle fire trucks. It was time to go. 

If I were a traitorous rat, where would I hide? Sirius wondered to himself, and shifted into his dog shape. At once, everything was clearer. His pack had been killed, and the one responsible was still out there. Hunt, find, kill. There was no need to plan beyond that. He shook himself, easing the tension in his shoulders, and put his nose to the ground. 

Pettigrew’s scent was sharp with fear. He had been sweating, hurrying along the dark road not too long before. Sirius loped along his trail until it vanished. He growled in frustration. The man had apparated. He could be anywhere. A car came around a curve in the road, headlights blinding him. He snarled at it, and the driver swerved wildly around him. Adrenaline turned his sorrow into anger. He wanted to bite something, to destroy anything in his way. He shook his head to clear it. Think like a rat, he reminded himself, not like a dog. The nearest muggle town was only a few miles ahead. If he knew anything about rats, then Pettigrew would go to ground as soon as he could. More mindful of cars this time, Sirius ran along the edge of the road, headed towards the town. 

Hours later, with the sun rising, he admitted he was wrong. The town had plenty of natural rodents, but no sign or scent of Pettigrew. Tired and footsore, he curled up on a doorstep. Light rain had started to fall, beading on his fur. He licked it off, thirsty from the run. Think. Where else could Pettigrew have gone? If both sides knew he was the spy, nowhere was safe. The Dark Lord’s followers would think he had betrayed them when they heard the news, and he had never been well-liked in the Order of the Phoenix. That left only one place, but surely he wouldn’t be dumb enough to go back there. 

Sirius rose, and stretched, and sighed. Behind a garden shed, he shifted back into a man. Although he tried to steel himself, the grief hit him like a sucker punch. He leaned one arm against the shed for a moment to steady himself. A security light blinked on in the back of the house, spotlighting him. He cursed under his breath, nosy suspicious muggles, and disapparated. 

* * *

His jacket and helmet were, unsurprisingly, not laying on the steps where he had dropped them. Inside the house, he could smell breakfast frying. His stomach rumbled in answer and he wondered how he could possibly be hungry. It felt like a betrayal, to want to eat when they were dead. A woman jogging by gave him a suspicious look and a wide berth. He looked his reflection over in the window of a parked car. Rumpled sweater, damp from rain and sweat. Pale, drawn face surrounded by tangled curls he normally kept artfully mussed. At best, he looked hungover. At worst, a little mad. He ducked behind the car and became a dog again.

The black dog didn’t care about his appearance. He didn’t care about passing joggers, or the elderly witch cooking, or the endless drip of the rain. He could smell that his prey was inside that house, and so he waited. The hedge beside the porch provided some cover. His black fur faded into the shadows, and he dozed with one eye open. The morning passed, and the rain stopped. He waited. 

When the door finally opened, it was all he could do not to spring up and attack. Pettigrew poked his head out, looking both ways nervously. He patted his pocket, feeling for the reassurance of his wand. Sirius watched with a vicious predatory grin. His prey hurried down the stairs and out along the sidewalk. Wait, Sirius reminded himself. He won’t get away with this. When the smaller man’s footsteps faded around the block, Sirius slunk out of the bushes and followed. He trotted along in plain view, tongue lolling, following Pettigrew’s scent. The roads and sidewalks got busier, and he sped up. Ducking into an alley, he returned to human shape. 

“Peter!” He called, and the little man flinched. 

“Sirius,” Pettigrew muttered, eyes darting around the crowded sidewalk, searching for an escape. Then, louder, “Lily and James, Sirius! How could you!”

The accusation caught him enough by surprise that Sirius stopped walking. And then the street exploded. He was flung backward from the spot where Pettigrew had stood an instant before, landing on his back with the wind knocked out of him. He gasped and coughed in the dust and smoke from the explosion. Around him, muggles were screaming and running away, or rushing to the wounded scattered around the crater in the street. Sirius struggled to his feet and walked to the crater’s edge. A muggle woman wept beside him, shaking a man who had lost an arm, begging him to stay with her. Steam billowed from the hole, and he could hear trickling water under the falling debris. Pettigrew’s clothes were crumpled on the edge, flecked with blood. Sirius kicked them, searching, but the man had vanished. 

Grief and horror welled up in him and he dropped to his knees at the edge of the crater. He couldn’t even get this one thing done. His family had been right about him all along: he was worthless. Literally outsmarted by a rat. Kneeling there in the dust, with the muggles crying around him, he started to laugh, And even when twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol apparated around him, wands drawn, he couldn’t stop laughing. 


	2. Azkaban

Reality caught up with him in the dungeon beneath the Ministry of Magic. A pair of aurors forced Sirius into the chair in the middle of the circular room. The chains glowed gold and snaked up his arms, cold and bruising. The tiers of benches that towered above him were empty. There was no jury, and no witnesses. The judge sat alone at his high bench. 

“Death Eater filth,” one of the aurors hissed at him. The chains prevented him from moving anything but his fingers, so he made a rude gesture. The auror brought his fist back to punch him, but the judge spoke up,

“That’ll do.” The aurors moved aside to stand, waiting, against the wall. “Sirius Black, you are convicted of thirteen counts of murder and sentenced to life in Azkaban. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Sirius looked around the empty room. He had no counsel, no defense, no friends. He suddenly felt cold and powerless. 

“Is this supposed to be a trial?” He asked angrily. 

“Trials for Death Eaters have been temporarily suspended, especially in cases as egregious as yours.”

“What murders am I convicted of?”

One of the aurors, outraged, burst out, “You blew up a street full of muggles in broad daylight! A pureblood like you might not consider that murder, but we do!”

“I’m not my family!” Sirius spat. “And I didn’t blow up that street.”

“Order!” The judge waved the auror away again. “My judgment stands. We have many witnesses, there is no doubt of your guilt. The guards wait for you outside: your sentence begins immediately.”

The door to the right of the judge opened. Bitter cold spread through the dungeon, and Sirius’ throat tightened. The chamber fell silent as the pair of dementors glided in, bearing with them a current of despair. He felt sweat break out on his forehead and arms, and found himself pulling uselessly against the chains, straining to get away. The aurors, standing against the far wall, were pale but stoic. The judge leaned back on his bench, narrow face set in distaste beneath perfectly combed hair. The dementors closed in on Sirius, and the chains released him. His breathing quickened, but there was nowhere to run. 

“I didn’t kill anyone!” He found himself yelling, as one of the grey, rotting hands reached for him. _But not for lack of trying,_ his own voice said cruelly in his mind. _You went there to kill Wormtail, after all. This is your fault. You deserve this._

Icy fingers wrapped around his arms and hauled him upright. His legs barely held his weight, he was trembling so fiercely. He could hear hoarse breathing from under the deep black hoods, and imagined with horror what sort of face might be hidden inside. 

“Please, listen!” He tried again, as the dementors began to drag him from the dungeon. “I’m not a Death Eater!” 

* * *

“That whole family should be sent to Azkaban,” one of the aurors said, watching the departing dementors and their prisoner. 

“It would save us a lot of trouble,” the other agreed. “Instead of rounding them up one at a time.”

“Save a lot of lives,” the first one added sadly. “Toss you for it.”

“Nah, it’s my turn. Say hi to the family for me.” The auror followed the dementors down the dark passageway, watching the torches gutter out. His reluctant footsteps echoed off the stone walls. Sirius had fallen silent. 

* * *

Somewhere over the open sea, the dementors circling in eerie silence around him, the shock wore off. Sirius was on a broomstick, twenty feet or so above the endless crashing waves. Sea spray blew up at him, carried by a cutting, constant wind. Beside him flew an auror, but not the one who had tried to hit him. He supposed that was as much good news as he could hope for at this point. His robes were damp, his bound hands numb.

The auror saw him looking around and raised his wand. “Don’t try anything stupid, now.”

If he’d had the energy, Sirius would have laughed, but it was likely he’d never laugh again. Instead, he looked down at the water, wondering how long it would take to drown. Compared to the prospect of life in Azkaban, the icy waves looked inviting. He had let everyone down. James, Lupin, Dumbledore, everyone who had ever believed he could be better than his family name. He’d proven them wrong. Little Harry would be better off with Lily’s relatives, even an idiot could see that. No one in the world would miss Sirius Black. 

The dementors’ circle tightened. The auror shuddered, looking pale and shaky. It would be a kindness to him, too, if Sirius were gone. The man could turn around, leave the dementors behind, go back to his happy family, and never lose a second of sleep. 

“There’s your new home,” the auror said grimly, gesturing to the horizon with his wand. The island fortress was barren rock, a brutal structure under a ragged black swarm of dementors. 

Sirius lifted his bound hands from the broomstick, looked down at the water, and took one last deep breath. He leaned off the broom, shut his eyes, and let himself go, ready for the fall into the dark sea below. With a sickening swoop, he found himself upright again. 

“They all try that,” the auror chuckled humorlessly. “There’s a spell on the broom, of course. Can’t have you taking the easy way out.”

Sirius slumped over the broom, retching. Nothing came up; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. The island rose beneath them, the physical embodiment of terror and misery. He could hear screaming before they even touched down. The auror took his broom and kicked back off the island as quickly as he could. The dementors reached for Sirius again, and when he felt their clammy hands on him, he collapsed onto the stone, screaming. 

* * *

The cell was smaller than Kreacher’s closet. He couldn’t lay across it if he wanted to, and could barely stand upright. Through the narrow, barred window he could see a sliver of grey, although he couldn’t tell if it was sea, sky, or stone. Days and nights were indistinguishable, and it was impossible to tell if he slept: the nightmares were the same as reality. Every now and again, when the vicious voices in his mind died down for a moment, he could hear his fellow prisoners noisily battling their own demons. At uncertain intervals, the door opened and a tray of food was placed on the floor. The first time, he rushed for the door, ready to fight or run. The dementor loomed over him, pushing him down to the floor with its presence alone. After that, he stayed as far back as he could.

His family came to him in the visions, berating him. 

“Blood traitor!” His mother screamed, spit flying from her lips. She blasted his name from the family tree, and he wanted to be glad, but he wasn’t. 

James and Lily stared at him with vacant, dead eyes. “It’s your fault we’re dead,” they whispered. “We trusted you.”

“Such a disappointment,” Dumbledore told him. “Waste of talent.”

A green-eyed, dark-haired toddler looked up at him and wailed, tears pouring down his cheeks. Blood oozed from a livid new scar on his forehead.

“Filth! Murderer! Death Eater!” The voices wouldn’t end. Awake or asleep, he heard them. He curled into himself on the floor, steeped in pain and cold. 

_I’m not, though_ , he thought at some point _. I didn’t murder anyone_.

The voices changed tack. “Useless scum, can’t even get rid of one miserable rat of a man.”

 _That’s true_ , he thought. _I didn’t do it. I’m innocent, of that at least._

The thought gave him some space to breathe inside the cloud of misery. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the cracked stone ceiling. Moisture beaded up and dripped down onto him, slow drops. He licked one off his hand, tasting dirt and salt. He stared at his filthy hand for a while, laying on the rough, cold floor. The nails were black with dried blood, the knuckles swollen from pounding at the walls and door. He wiped his hands vaguely on the thin grey robe he wore, feeling his ribs beneath his fingers. His spine ground against the floor, with no fat or muscle left on the bones.

Outside the window, for just a moment, the mist cleared. The moon shone down, full and bright. He felt the beginning of a pleasant memory, and reached out for it as it ebbed away. The moon vanished into the mist again, but he remembered running in the dark. Sharp teeth, the grass underfoot, another animal running heavily beside him. 

The transformation was convulsive, out of his control. The stone below him didn’t feel as harsh, insulated by thick black fur. The dog had no bad memories, no past to haunt him. He curled up again, tucking his nose under his tail, and slept for the first time since he arrived. And although the black dog whimpered and cried out in his sleep, the dementors heard and suspected nothing out of the ordinary.


	3. Twelve Years

Even as a dog, he noticed something had changed. The dementors guarding the cells had thinned: he felt like he could take a deep breath for the first time in ages. A draft blew down the hall, bringing the scent of the sea and something new. He’d never known the prison to host a visitor before, but that clean soapy scent with just a hint of cologne didn’t belong to an inmate. And although the man’s breathing sounded stressed, it wasn’t the desperation of the condemned. 

Reluctantly, he gave up the relative ease of the dog shape and stood at the cell door, looking out into the hallway. The crushing weight of the prison’s accumulated misery pressed into him, but his curiosity was stronger. He rested his arms on the high, barred window in the door. A well-dressed man in a lime-green bowler hat bobbed along the row of cells, his round face tense with discomfort. He walked as if he were in a hurry but trying not to show it. There was a newspaper under his arm. A dementor flanked him at a distance. 

Most of the other prisoners were too lost in their pain to notice. They cried out, or muttered nonsense to themselves. Sirius leaned against the door, watching. 

“Hey,” he called, when the man got closer. His voice sounded alien in his ears, a harsh and broken croak just above a whisper. He tried again, a little louder. 

“Good morning,” the visitor replied, looking up and down the row of cells.

Sirius tapped against the window bars. “Over here.”

“Good lord,” the visitor gasped, looking at Sirius’ face and the list in his hand. “You’re Sirius Black!”

“Are you finished with that paper?” 

“I suppose it couldn’t do any harm,” the man muttered, looking bemused. He reached up to the window and poked the roll of parchment through the bars. Sirius waited until he let go, then took it. 

“Thanks.” 

“Good lord,” the visitor said again, and hurried on his way, bowler hat bobbing improbably along the hall of cells. 

Sirius unrolled the paper, feeling the parchment crunch under his fingertips. It had been so long since he’d been able to do something as simple as reading the paper. He held it up to the window in the door, casting some of the flickering torchlight on the page. 

_Wait, 1993?_ He thought, reading the date at the top of the page. That couldn’t be right. Twelve years he’d been locked away in here. It felt like an eternity. It felt like yesterday. The dementors were coming back, now that the visitor had moved along; Sirius felt the familiar tide of despair rising up in his throat, fogging his thoughts again. 

Water dripped from the ceiling onto the page, calling his attention to a photo. He shook his head fiercely to clear it. An enormous, grinning family stood in front of the pyramids in Egypt. The Weasleys...he remembered that name, or thought he did. Distant cousins of some kind, poor but decent. The fog was getting thicker in his mind. The voices were returning, low but insistent. He rolled the paper up tightly and hid it under the thin mattress. A dementor drifted by his door and he sank to his knees, head in his hands. In the cell next to him, a woman babbled. He pressed his palms against his ears and rolled onto the narrow bed hanging from the wall. A moment later, he was a dog again. 

Sometime later, the door opened for a food delivery. He yawned and stretched, then licked the tray clean in moments. Prison food was much more bearable in this shape, too. The dog sniffed hopefully around the tray for crumbs, then returned to the bed with a whine. Something crunched under his shoulder, and he pawed at it. The paper! He shifted back without thinking about it, digging the roll of parchment from under the mattress. 

For weeks, whenever there was enough light to read, he pored over the paper, hungry for anything outside of his own mind. But he kept coming back to that photo. Something about it bothered him. He scanned the faces again, although he had the details memorized by now. One of the multitude of shabby children had something on his shoulder, a small pet of some kind. Sirius brought the page closer to his face, squinting in the dimness. It was a rat. A rat missing a toe on its front right paw. 

Sirius bared his teeth in a snarl, forgetting whether he was a dog or a man. It was Pettigrew, sitting bold as you please on that boy’s shoulder. He’d recognize that rat out of thousands, and with that missing toe, it was too much of a coincidence. 

_You’ve lost it,_ his mental voice spoke up scathingly. _Millions of rats in the country and you think this is miraculously the one you're looking for?_

The article said the boy was at Hogwarts. Which meant Pettigrew was there too. Sirius crumpled the parchment in his fist. 

“Abomination!” His mother’s voice shrieked. 

“Murderer,” another voice hissed. Sirius grinned, a predatory smile, all teeth and no joy. 

“Not yet,” he answered aloud to no one. “Soon. He’s at Hogwarts.”

He began keeping track of time, counting days as best he could. For the first time since that street blew up, twelve years before, he had a reason to think beyond the moment. Scheming revenge wasn’t a happy feeling, so the dementors didn’t touch it, but it was motivating. He tore the photo from the paper and tucked it inside his robe. When he was in human shape, and the misery became overwhelming, he touched the parchment. It grounded him, forced him to think of the future, and loosened the grip of the past. If he could only escape, he could finish this. It didn’t matter that no one had ever escaped Azkaban before. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have a plan. It didn’t even matter that Hogwarts was impenetrable. He would escape, and he would kill Pettigrew. The rest was just details. 

In the end, he trusted the dog’s instincts. Lying on the cold stone by the door, he waited. When it creaked open, he slipped through, darting between the dementor’s drifting robe and the doorframe. The dementor laid down the food tray, sensing nothing. It couldn't see him, and in dog shape he moved silently. He slunk through the long hall, ears pressed against his skull, tail tucked tightly between his legs. The scent of the sea air grew stronger. He raised his head to sniff the breeze and bit back a whine in his throat. The open air was so close. A pair of dementors glided past and he crushed himself against the wall, making himself as small as possible. Their rasping breaths passed by, sensing nothing to feed on. The dog saw an opening ahead, weak daylight casting barred shadows on the floor. He hurried to it, belly to the ground. 

The bars on the door were solid and close together. Desperate, he pushed his head between them and found that it fit. He struggled with his shoulders, backing out to try one paw at a time. After that, he slipped through easily, although the bars dragged across his ribs and hipbones. Outside the walls for the first time in twelve years, he shivered in the biting wind. He shook himself, loose fur scattering around him in little clumps, and trotted to the water’s edge. Nothing for it but to swim. Better to die out there…

But he wasn’t going to die. Pettigrew was, and he was at Hogwarts, hiding as a pet. Despicable cowardly traitor. The dog snarled and leapt into the sea. 

The cold sapped the strength from his already wasted body, but the dog kept swimming. Salt water choked him, waves crashing over his head no matter how high he raised his nose. The sun was rising so he swam toward it, eyes slitted against the unaccustomed brightness. He never worried about things like time, or distance, or the impossibility of a dog swimming for miles in the open ocean. There was only one thing that mattered. He’d served twelve years for murder, while the man responsible ran free. He imagined the crunch of tiny rat bones between his teeth.


End file.
